When Waterdrops Have Worn The Stones Of Troy
by antychan
Summary: Futurefic. Lex ponders men's cowardice and the tragedy that is the Butterfly Effect. NOTE: To view the fic properly, please go to my livejournal. The direct link is in my profile. This place here keeps messing up the layout.


**_FIC: When Waterdrops Have Worn The Stones Of Troy (1/1)_**  
Author: Antigone a.k.a. Anty  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairings: Clark/Lex and/or Lex/Lionel, if read as pre-slash. Works perfectly as gen, though.

Summary: Future-fic. Lex ponders men's cowardice and the tragedy that is the Butterfly Effect.

Spoilers: Scare (4x10), Slumber (3x04), Memoria (3x19), Truth (3x18), Covenant (3x22), Lexmas (5x09), Shattered (3x08), Hourglass (1x06). Episodes are also the source of original dialogue.  
Disclaimer: I own Lex and Michael Rosenbaum, though only in my dreams.

Notes: For this fic to make complete sense, you should be familiar with the episodes listed above. Many thanks to my betas Trixx and Sorrel.

When Waterdrops Have Worn The Stones Of Troy  
© Antigone, December 18th & 19th, 2005

The great irony, Lex reflected, as he wandered through his absolute nightmare, was that it only would have taken the courage of a single person, once, for a split second, to make all the difference. In a past where there'd still been the time to make crucial choices, they had foolishly chosen to believe they possessed great strength by dutifully embracing an avertable destiny. Yet in the age of tearing down carefully constructed realities, life shimmered sickly with the stark truth that each of them had been too weak to burst out of a prison they had created for themselves.

Not one of them had been strong enough to change the course of the future.

_Clark knows he can never tell Lex his secret._

It's not that he fears his best friend might betray him. He's afraid his best friend's ambition will betray Lex.

He shifts awkwardly about on his feet, generally waving in the direction of the Japanese sword gracing the pillar next to Lex's desk. When he can no longer bear the other's inquisitive gaze and the dull feeling in the pit of his stomach, Clark speaks in the hope of easing the sense of dread that has taken hold.

"Always liked this sword," he babbles while walking over to the weapon. "What is it, some sort of legendary Samurai antique?"

"Hardly." Lex wears an almost self-depreciating expression as he joins Clark in front of the pillar and takes the katana off the wall. "It's a prop from my favourite Kurosawa movie... 'Throne of Blood'." He removes the sheath and studies the blade approvingly, eyes glimmering faintly with rapture. In the pale light of the grey afternoon that seeps through the windows around them, Clark thinks Lex suddenly looks very young.

"I'm not human," he blurts.

Lex never again questions Clark's love for him. Clark never tells Lex that with each battle, he becomes more and more like Lionel Luthor, for Lex and his father no longer tear each other apart. Lex has simply walked away. He has somewhere else to go.

_Lex knows his father will never love him._

That the only chance he has of getting under Lionel Luthor's skin is to hurt him. Attacking his father is no game, nothing he consciously plays at – it's a reflex he cannot prevent, necessary as breathing, even though it hurts as much as the asthma rattling through his battered lungs, so many years ago. As he watches Lionel striding graciously through the stylish office with the magnificent view, instinct kicks in.

"I guess the truth has never really held much merit for you."

Within seconds, Lionel has invaded his son's personal space. "I'm losing my patience, Lex," he declares, and Lex wheezes as he ineffectually tries to calm his fluttering heart. "You're constantly defensive with me," and this becomes one of the rare moments when the older Luthor actually shouts. "Now tell me, damn it – what is it you want from me?"

Ironically, it's there, amid Lionel's hot-blooded demand, surrounded by the breathtaking manifestations of his power, that it occurs to Lex that one day, his father will die.

He spills the words, long before any false acceptance of loss can sink in.

"I want you to love me."

They have a string quartet playing Barber's requiem. And as Lex remembers one of the last conversations he ever had with his father, when Lionel told him it was actually an adagio, his breath hitches in his throat because it's a _fond_ memory, one of many, finally, and he's so grateful for having been granted them. And to Jonathan Kent's utter shock, he shamelessly defiles the Luthor name, and purges it, all at once, by tightly holding Martha's hand while hopelessly crying on Clark's shoulder.

_Lionel knows that no matter how much he loves his son, Lex will never believe it to be the truth._

Will not believe Lionel hardly ever doubted Lex would come out of the surgery alive. Will never see how in the world-stopping moments when he did, Lionel held on to the knowledge that Lex would rather die than live a cripple… instead of the notion that a dead son was preferable to one not walking.

"You may hate me for taking the risk, but I had to make a choice." He leans over the hospital bed to put his arms next to his son's fragile form, but Lex turns away. "And you're alive," he insists. "And you can walk. I had to give you that chance."

When Lex answers, his voice is harsh. "And what if I hadn't made it?" he demands, seeming different somehow, even though his skin is still its palest, pupils large and luminous in the dim light. "How would you have justified your decision then?"

His son's vulnerability has disappeared, solely by conscious will.

And fear, unlike any he's ever known, grips Lionel Luthor's heart, when he sees that in the back of Lex's eyes, a door finally shuts.

"I love you, Lex," he desperately declares. "More than life itself."

Not everyone Lex has ever loved has died.

The great irony, Lex reflected, as he wandered through his absolute nightmare, was that he would have loved to live a life in which revenge didn't taste so sweet. He leisurely trod on the ashes of what he had once believed to be his salvation and wondered, briefly, if this was what had killed Cassandra.

Welcome Alexander, to Smallville. Population: None.

(Fin.)

_Prophet may you be!  
If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth,  
When time is old and hath forgot itself,  
When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy,  
And blind oblivion swallowed cities up,  
And mighty states characterless are grated  
To dusty nothing – yet let memory,  
From false to false, among false maids in love,  
Upbraid my falsehood! When they've said, 'As false  
As air, as water, wind or sandy earth,  
As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer's calf,  
Pard to the hind, or step-dame to her son',  
Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood,  
'As false as Cressid'._

_Troilus and Cressida; Act III, Scene ii.  
By William Shakespeare._


End file.
